


Of Dresses, Dinner and Dessert

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Time for a proper dinner date.Andit's Friday night. (Followup to"Of Curry, Cake, and Classics".)





	Of Dresses, Dinner and Dessert

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to "Of Curry, Cake and Classics." You asked for it, and well… though I usually hate follow-ups, I really wanted to do it.
> 
> Disclaimer: It's all speculation, alternate-universe-y… and still not really mine.

He only told her to dress for a candlelit dinner.

After all, after chocolate cake, turkey curry, and pad Thai out of paper takeaway containers, it was time for a proper sit-down dinner date.

"Where are we going?" she asked via the telephone, directly after his advising her of this.

"It's a surprise," he said.

He heard her chuckle low in her throat. "How fancy?"

"Anything equivalent to what you wore on New Year's Day."

"I think I can manage that."

He paused for a moment, remembering his parting kiss with her that night before saying, "I look forward to Friday."

She paused for a moment too, could hear her smile in her voice as she said, "So do I."

………

The week seemed to go by more slowly than usual, but Friday arrived at last. Bridget practically ran home to shower and prepare for her dinner date with Mark, who said he'd be there to pick her up at seven. She hadn't yet decided exactly what to wear; after two separate shopping trips and even more closet raids of friends during the week had come up empty, she realised it would have to be something out of her own closet, though she had no idea what. After all, the black dress was out of the running, as she'd worn that to the Buffet.

"Dinner date, Bridge?" her friend Jude had asked during one of those closet raids. "Whom with?"

Bridget had laughed and gone into the highlights of her acquaintance with Mark to present. "Oh," Jude had said, looking thoughtful. "Yes, I know him."

Bridget had been stunned. "You know Mark Darcy?"

"Well, yes, on a professional standing," she'd replied. "We worked with him for something or other a few months ago." Jude's voice then had dropped an octave. "Heard that his wife left him a Christmas or two prior, for another man."

Wife? Her shock must have been evident on her face because Jude had then burst out in a giggle. 

"Didn't know about a wife," Bridget had explained, "though he did mention some 'foolish mistakes' he'd recently made."

She had continued to wonder until that evening about the wife situation—surely they were divorced or the Grafton Underwood gang wouldn't have been so keen to set them up—even as she stared again into her own closet. _Bugger_ , she thought. _Maybe should have worn the carpet after all on New Year's_ , _but surely if had, would not presently have dinner date and associated clothing crisis…_

She glanced to the clock. It was six-fifty. _Bugger!_

She dug more deeply into her clothing than she had in the past when her hand brushed against something soft and plush. She furrowed her brow, struggling to recall what on earth she had in her closet that felt like that, when she remembered: long blue dress of stretchy crushed indigo velvet. Perfect, except… she usually reserved that dress for when she was not nearly ten stone.

She pulled it out anyway, held it up, and decided to slip it on. She examined herself in the mirror from all angles, cringing a little at how tightly the dress clung to her hips and breasts.

That was when she heard her entryphone start to buzz. _Bloody hell._

………

It was a few moments before he heard her voice sound out over the intercom. "Yes?"

"It's me," he said, then elaborated, "Mark. Are you ready?"

"Uh…" she said. "Just about… come on up."

The door lock clicked open and he headed up the stairs until he reached her top-floor flat, then knocked at the door once, twice. "Hold on, be right there." He heard the frenzy of footsteps and then the door swung open.

He was literally struck dumb.

Her blonde hair was a little unkempt and wild, her eyes bright, her lips pouting and pink, but it was her dress that had done it, or rather, the way her dress accentuated her very shapely figure. "Sorry," she said, backing up the stairs. "I hadn't quite found the right dress; if you don't mind holding on, I'll just put on a skirt and blouse."

"No," he said unexpectedly, his voice sounding quite unlike itself. She looked perplexed. "I only mean that dress will do nicely."

"Okay," she said, sounding a little dubious. "It's a little too tight."

"It looks great," he said.

She still looked sceptical, but said, "Let me put my shoes on then. Be right back."

Patiently he stood there while he heard her making all sorts of noise in the rear of the flat. He wanted very much to go help her find her shoes, but knew it would be a mistake, with the way he was thinking about her in that dress.

She appeared with a bright smile moments later, hair smoothed down again, and she was wearing high-heeled shoes that helped lessen the difference in their heights. 

"I'll just get my coat and bag, then," she said, looking up at him, pointing towards the banister over which her coat rested.

"Yes," he said, "then we can be off."

As she walked over for her little clutch purse, he picked up her coat and held it up for her to slip into. He set it down on her shoulders then swept his fingers along her neck to pull her hair up out of the collar, loose and waving. 

She turned around and smiled at him. "Thanks."

He did not reply. He was beginning to think that the evening's plans were a mistake, not because he didn't want to have dinner with her, but because food was, in all honesty, the last thing on his mind.

………

_He must be slightly mad_ , she thought. _Feel like a sausage in this dress._

They descended the stairs together and emerged onto the street; he opened the car door for her, then closed it when she got settled in before getting behind the wheel.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going now?"

She watched him grin slyly as he turned the key in the ignition. "No. You'll find out soon enough."

She had no idea how right he'd prove to be, because it was the matter of a minute or two before they were in Holland Park and he was pulling up along the kerb in front of what must have been his house; it was tall and gorgeous, and she suddenly felt like she lived in a hovel.

"Did you forget something?" she asked.

"Nope." He got out of the car, went around, and opened her door for her, then held out his hand to help her up. "I just thought turnabout was fair play."

"What?"

"Well, we had dinner at your place already," he said. "Figured it was my turn."

Confusion swirled in her head as her brows came together. "You cooked?"

"Well… sort of." They went up onto his porch, and he unlocked the door. "My housekeeper was kind enough to put together a dinner of my choosing for us. I hope you like it."

He swung the door open and indicated she should enter. The house was immaculately clean and beautifully if a little sparsely adorned in designer décor; she looked around herself, feeling very much like a pretend-grownup. She also was immediately caught by intoxicating dinner smells hanging in the air and realised how hungry she was. She turned back to him. He'd divested himself of his coat and she saw that he was dressed as if for a five-star restaurant, complete with suit jacket and tie; only then did it occur to her that he probably dressed like that every day for work. She was struck by the attractive figure he cut in a suit. Very attractive, indeed.

"I'll take your coat," he said. "Turn around." He grasped the collar and pulled down as she stepped forward and out of the coat, which he then hung on the rack by the door.

"Thanks," she said, feeling a little awkward, just as she had when he helped her into the coat.

"There's no need to thank me," he said, smiling. "It's my pleasure." He stepped forth, pointing to a small table in the foyer. "If you like you may leave your handbag out here. I assure you that except for the housekeeper we're alone in the house and it won't go skittering off on its own."

She smiled, then set the purse down. "Lead on to dinner."

He extended his elbow, which she giggled and took, then led her forward down the hall, to a door which he then swung open. It was the dining room, and it nearly took her breath away: there were candles on the sideboard tables (which were also lined with covered serving dishes), the china hutch and on the dining table itself. There were two place settings there with a full array of silverware, plates, bowls and glasses, one at the head of the eight-seat table, and one immediately to its right. She could also hear the faint traces of classical strings, though could not actually see evidence of a sound system or of speakers.

He walked her to the table, then pulled out her chair. She took a seat and he pushed it in for her before taking his own seat. He looked at her with a smile.

"I hope, in this case, that silence means approval."

She blinked rapidly, realising she had not spoken. "Sorry. Yes, yes. This is lovely. More than lovely."

The dining room door opened again, and an older Filipino woman came in with a polite smile, then headed for the sideboard table. "That's Maryam," he explained, "my housekeeper, who has kindly offered to stay to serve us."

"Thank you," Bridget said; she saw Maryam nod in acknowledgement before bringing over a small tureen and lifting the lid. Curls of steam rose as she did; Bridget saw that the soup inside was creamy and reddish.

"I didn't want to get too exotic," he explained. "Cream of tomato and basil soup."

"It looks and smells delicious and I'm sure it will be wonderful."

With a subtle but proud smile, Maryam ladled the soup into the bowls before going over for the bottle of wine that sat chilling in a bucket of ice, then, with a rapidity that told Bridget she had uncorked many bottles of expensive wine for her employer, she opened the bottle and poured each of them a glass of golden white wine. Then, with a little nod, Maryam departed the room.

She turned her eyes to him and smiled, taking his handsome features in once again; the candlelight cast shadows accentuating the dimples in his cheek and illuminated his warm brown eyes, the open eagerness of his expression. Oh, she very much liked him indeed, and the truth was, the suddenness and the strength of those feelings—of how much she had not only liked him but wanted him on the very first day of their acquaintance as adults, as equals—screamed to her to be cautious, even though all she could really think of was how badly she wanted to kiss him again, to be in his arms.

He then took his glass of wine in hand and raised it.

………

Mark watched Bridget through every step of Maryam's serving of the first course of their dinner, saw his date looking slightly overwhelmed and yet impressed. He took his wineglass by the stem, then lifted it up and out; she snapped out of her apparent trance state and did the same. As they clinked glasses, he thought about offering a toast, but thought 'To us' sounded a bit presumptuous. Instead he said, "Enjoy."

He drank from his glass, watched her do the same. She smiled.

He reached for his soup spoon and dipped it into the bowl then glanced back up to her. She looked slightly far away, or like she might speak, but didn't.

"Bridget?"

She looked to him again. "Yes?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she said, offering another smile, but still sounding not completely convincing. "Just thinking how I'll be spoiled for Chardonnay for all time. This is very good wine."

He chuckled. "I'm glad you like it."

She took her spoon in hand and brought soup to her mouth. "Oh, _God_ ," she said, closing her eyes and savouring the taste. "This is _fantastic_."

He found he had to clear his throat before speaking again. "I'm sure Maryam would be delighted to hear you think so."

The smile she gave him that time was much more relaxed and honest, but then she furrowed her brow. "How's she going to know when to come back?" asked Bridget.

He laughed again. "I told her to give us twenty minutes."

"Oh," she said sheepishly, eating more of the soup.

They finished in considerably less time than twenty minutes, and she reached for her wine glass again, taking a long, thoughtful sip before looking to him again.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, sipping his own.

She seemed to start, then blush and look into her glass. "Sorry. I was just—well, you mentioned having made some foolish mistakes, and I was thinking… _wondering_ … what you meant by that."

His first instinct was to purse his lips tight and change the subject, but he realised he had no reason not to tell her. "The short version is that I got married, then I got divorced." He paused, taking in a breath. He hated talking about this; it made him feel such a failure and a fool. "She was unfaithful to me with my best mate from Cambridge only two weeks after our wedding."

The pained, surprised look that crossed her face was quickly superseded by one of concern and sympathy. "God. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks," he said, trying to offer a heartfelt smile. "It did serve to teach me a very valuable lesson, one I should have remembered from Austen."

"Which is what?"

"Not marrying for anything but love."

………

Bridget wondered momentarily if the same person responsible for forcing him to be more sociable was the friend who had betrayed him. But she smiled, then chuckled, deciding it best to get off the subject, and she quite approved of the lesson learned. "Jane Austen was a very wise woman."

"She was."

He was doing it again, taking hold of her gaze and not letting go, and if not for the reappearance of the housekeeper, they might have stayed like that for many minutes.

"Ah, Maryam, thank you."

She was served a chicken breast and a side of potatoes, both of which smelled deliciously of rosemary. "Just fantastic," she murmured.

"Once again, I'm glad you approve." He turned to the housekeeper. "Thank you again for everything. I'll take care of dessert."

She bent respectfully at the waist then retreated from the dining room, flashing a surprisingly candid smile in Bridget's directly before pulling the doors closed behind her.

"More wine?"

"Yes, please," she said, then he topped up her glass.

The meal itself was as delicious as the soup, if not more so, and she felt like she went through it much more quickly than she should have, finishing before he did. He glanced up to see her empty plate, looked momentarily perplexed before chuckling.

"I gather you liked dinner?"

_Nothing like making a glutton of oneself again in front of… well_ , she considered, blushing equally at her actions as well as her thoughts, _whatever he is or will be_. "Yes, very much so." She remembered the mention of dessert, and wondered if her dress would survive the night or split the seams up each side. "If I ate like this every night—" she began, then stopped. Stupid to remind him that she was not exactly svelte.

He proved himself to exceptionally perceptive yet again: "What?"

"What?" she asked, rather playing dumb.

"I'm asking for the 'then' of your 'if/then' statement," he said with a smirk.

"I'd be the size of an aircraft carrier," she finished glumly.

At that he laughed out loud; she immediately did not much care that it was at her own expense, because it was a very honest, very true reaction, and he had a great laugh. She smiled reluctantly.

"Oh, Bridget," he said, chuckling residually. "I'm very glad about that, about you."

She brought her brows together. "That I'm not an aircraft carrier?"

This caused him to laugh again. "No. That you haven't changed so much that you don't just say what you're thinking."

"Even when I point out my own flaws, ones that hardly need pointing out?"

She felt his hand brush against then rest on hers. "I think 'flaw' is in the eye of the beholder."

Her heart started hammering in her chest. She hadn't thought about after dinner; when one went out to a restaurant one had the option of taking a stroll, heading off to the cinema, having coffee at another venue… but here she was already at his place, where the non-awkward or non-forward option was pretty much 'get the tour of the house'. 

"If you say 'you're too kind'," said Mark, not releasing her hand, "I'm going to have to make you do all the washing up."

She laughed, looking down shyly, could not help thinking that he was, indeed, too kind.

"That's more like it," he said. "Now, before dessert, I could perhaps show you 'round this place. Would hate for you to get lost needing to use the ladies."

………

He wasn't sure precisely why she burst out with a little laugh and a blush, but she did, then looked up and grinned. "I'd love to see the house."

"Great." He rose from the table. "Let's start here, then upstairs, work our way down, then maybe have dessert in the lower sitting room."

"Sounds great. Couldn't eat another bite at present."

He led her into the foyer and to the staircase, then pointed out the different rooms to her: the door to the loo ("Ha," she said, "no chance of getting lost now"), the front sitting room, his home office (which she poked her head into with great interest), before taking her up to the top floor. He then realised that there wasn't much to be seen up there but the loo, the spare room, and his own room. He hoped she didn't think he was trying to be pushy.

"Not much up here…" he said casually, from the top of the staircase. "Guest rooms, another loo—" He turned to her.

"What's that door?" she said, pointing to the end of the hall. "Is that your room?"

"Yes," he replied reluctantly.

"Oo," she said, smiling devilishly. "Turnabout, fair play, et cetera. I want to see your room."

He wasn't afraid of it being in any sort of disarray—as Maryam was very good about her duties—but he was hesitant. 

"You won't shock _me_ with a mess," she continued. "I promise."

With a smile he swung the door open, watched as she walked in looked around the room, at the large four-poster bed, the white walls and carpet, the dark wood bureaus, the fireplace, the cream-coloured window treatments, the glimpse of the bath through the open door.

"I forgot," said Bridget cryptically.

"Forgot what?"

"About the housekeeper." She looked to him. "I think your room's bigger than half my flat."

He chuckled. "There's something to be said for small, cosy places too."

"Emphasis on 'small'," she said, walking forward to have a closer look at the fireplace, running her fingers over the carving along the edge of the mantle.

He wanted to continue talking with her, continue to show her around the house, but now that they were away from the table and in his room, now that he was watching her stride around his room and looking at his things, he could only focus on her movements, could only wonder why she thought anything about how she looked was flawed. 

"Lovely," she said, turning to him again.

"Yes," he responded automatically.

He watched her expression become serious and thoughtful, and they stood there, looking at one another from across the room, she next to the fireplace again, the curve of her calves accentuated by the shoes she wore, the soft sheen of the velvet sheathing her equally curvaceous body, the rounded collar setting off not only her silver heart necklace but her full bosom.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

"I was just thinking," he said after a moment, "how glad I am that we've already told dating etiquette and self-help books to sod off."

She laughed lightly, and he was thankful that she did.

"I'd sort of forgotten about that," she admitted, resting all of her weight onto one foot, then raised her eyes again, taking her lower lip between her teeth, as if she were thinking very hard about something.

"Shall we carry on, then?" he asked, his voice sounding a little rough to his own ears.

"Yes," she said. "Excellent idea."

She walked towards the door, towards him, but instead of passing by and into the hall, she reached up onto her toes, threaded her arms around his neck, and started kissing him with all the fervour of the last kiss he'd given her on New Years' Day. 

He brought his arms to her waist, the velvet soft beneath his fingertips, and returned her kiss with equal enthusiasm, holding her tightly to him. He felt her hands in his hair, and the way her nails grazed along his scalp made him gasp. Reflexively he pulled her even more tightly. 

She broke away, meeting his eyes. "'Sod off', hm?" she said, panting for air.

"Every last one," he replied in a gravelly tone, his eyes searching hers. "They're clearly dead wrong."

Their gazes locked, she replied, "Clearly."

He leaned forward, reclaiming her lips for another kiss, and no, it wasn't his imagination; it wasn't that he just hadn't had a kiss in a good long while prior to kissing her; it wasn't even that his memory of previous kisses with other women was just off: she was very skilled at kissing and this was the best kiss he'd ever had. She knew just what to do with the right amount of pressure on his lips, which she took turns either grazing with her teeth or teasing with the tip of her tongue, all coupled with her fingers combing through his hair again, brushing along the tip of his ears, sweeping down over his sideburns and onto his cheek and neck.

Unsurprisingly, this was having a decided effect on him; he wanted her more than he thought he could want a woman and in this realisation, he pulled away again rather suddenly. Still breathing somewhat raggedly, he struggled to find the words he wanted to say. He didn't want to assume that her initiating a kiss, clearly enjoying their continued kiss and seemingly agreeing with his assessment that it wasn't too soon was tantamount to okaying an intimate liaison, as much as he wanted that to be true. "Bridget," he began.

"Yes?"

He moved the pads of his fingers to flit up her back, then back down again to her waist. "I—I'd really like to know if it's all right—well, if you—" 

"Mark," she interrupted, looking slightly taken aback. "Shut up and kiss me."

………

It was really sweet, actually, that he had stopped to gain approval to continue on; it somehow didn't surprise her in the least, being as filled to the brim with courtesy and manners as he was, but—Jesus, _honestly_. Stopping a smoking hot snog to ask if it was all right to go further, especially given how close they'd come on New Year's Day?

As if to underscore the consent she was granting, she reached around, placed her hands atop his and slid them down over her bottom, then arched into him. He responded by pressing his hands into her and kissing her with a ferocity that was one hundred and eighty degrees from the stammering, unsure man who'd just tried to ask permission to shag her.

She felt his hands roam up to her waist then her back again with no less pressure than on her bottom; he broke away from the kiss and proceeded to assault her chin, jaw and throat with a series of kisses that made her head fall back and feel very swimmy. She held onto his shoulders to keep from falling backwards as he took her earlobe tenderly between his teeth, his breath hot on her neck.

She stepped back, then again and again until she felt his bed against her arse; the mattress seemed insanely high off the ground, swathed in a quilted duvet that made it look even taller. With the bed behind her and him pressing forward into her it was immediately and abundantly clear how much he wanted her, as if the "Jesus" he breathed into her ear wasn't telling enough.

Suddenly she felt herself being lifted up, off the ground and onto the edge of the bed; his hands promptly came around to touch her chest, to kiss her again. She felt a quiet sound come up and out of her throat as his palms pushed into the firm points of her breasts, as he came closer to stand between her legs. He then ran his hands up along her legs, raising the hem of her dress.

_Now that he has clearance,_ she thought in hazy amusement, _there's no holding him back._

She brought her own hands up to his midsection under the jacket and ran them over the fine cotton of his dress shirt, feeling the taut musculature beneath. They then travelled to the waist of his trousers and she slipped her fingers into the waistband; as she did so he appeared to lose his footing and fell forward onto her, his weight delightfully heavy atop her.

Hardly breaking the kiss, they pushed themselves up onto the bed proper, side by side yet pressed closely together; she felt him raise her dress once more, his hand insistent on her leg as he bent over her again to assail her with kisses. When his fingers found the top of her thigh-high stockings, touched bare flesh, she heard him murmur something quietly under his breath and into her neck.

"What?" she said, her voice more a sigh than anything.

"You," he growled, raking his nails on her skin. "Bloody sexy."

She only felt an _Oh_ escape her mouth before he was kissing her again, his hand rounding her arse, his fingers slipping between the silken fabric and her skin, grasping her and pulling her flush to him, trying to tug the waistband of her pants down.

Bridget realised she was falling far behind; _he's still wearing his suit jacket, for crying out loud_ , she thought, _though am strangely turned on by the thought._ Her own hand went to his hip, followed the line of his belt around to the front of his trousers, then ran her fingers down along his fly, searching for his zipper.

He muttered something not very gentlemanly under his breath. She pushed harder. He groaned.

………

_Fuck_ , he thought, or maybe he said it; he was not the sort of man who said or thought the word very often, but something about the way she was touching him made him absolutely crazy, and he bucked his hips forward. All activity on his part froze as she tugged down the fly and slipped her fingers into the front, working through the opening of his boxers.

As her fingers brushed against his very hard self, his bedside table—within which resided his condoms, or at least he so dearly hoped— suddenly seemed a continent away. He heard her chuckle deep in her throat.

"Nightstand?" she asked, seemingly reading his mind.

He didn't have his wits about him enough to reply.

"Right," she said breathily, then, rolling out and away from him, she sat up and pulled the drawer open. He propped himself up on an elbow, couldn't see her face, but she must have looked disappointed, because she then started digging deeper into the drawer. "Oh, thank _God_ ," she said at last; he felt relieved as she held up a few small square packets and turned around to look at him.

His desire for her doubled in that moment; the darkening of her eyes and gaze, the playful curls of her smile at the corners of her mouth, and as she crawled back over towards him, the way her cleavage was showcased in the slightly too-snug dress.

"Found 'em," she said.

He replied by leaning forward, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck and pulling her into a kiss, taking one of her breasts in the other, running a thumb over her hardened nipple; she moaned into his mouth and launched herself on top of him.

With her hair hanging down in his face, he reached down, ran his hands up the backs of her thighs, over her arse, to the very lacy waistband of her pants. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric again, and this time pushed them over her hips as she arched them up to allow him to move them down. Passion renewed, he turned so that he was on his side and she was under him.

He had never been quite so thankful for such a commodious bed.

With astounding rapidity and single-minded purpose, she reached down to his trousers, flipped open the belt and the button, then pulled the sides open. She then reached to the bed above their heads, plucked one of the packets from the duvet, and tore it open.

"Allow me," he said throatily. It seemed somehow rude to have her do it.

To his surprise, she started to chuckle, then handed it to him. She turned and reached up to kiss him with a slow, languorous, teasing kiss as he concentrated on slipping the sheath on; she was determined, it seemed, to torture him.

The moment he was done, he pushed her back down on the bed, working her pants completely off—realising she still had those high pumps on, which strangely set his heart to racing even faster—before settling into place over her.

He braced himself up with his left arm, running his right hand down over her velvet-covered breast, over the bunched-up dress to her bare hip. He lowered his mouth to place his lips upon her creamy exposed bosom as he trailed his fingers along her hip, the crease of her leg; as his fingers got closer and closer to their destination, as he delivered open-mouthed kisses to the skin there, dipped his tongue down between her breasts, her breath grew even more stuttered, until at last he found, pressing his fingers into her, that she very much wanted him too.

………

She swore she nearly came when she felt his fingertips glide over her, delicate and flitting, paired with the ministrations to her upper half ( _what a nimble tongue_ , she thought; _oh, the things they teach at Cambridge…_ ), until the delicate, flitting teasing turned a little more assertive and she gasped and cried out.

He reared his head back, returned his kiss to her mouth…then she felt him drive forward and into her, grunting low in his throat as he did, breaking away, pressing his cheek to hers as he started moving rhythmically in her. 

Automatically she reached her arms up and around him, fingers trying to find purchase in his back, in the fabric of his suit—frisson of delight at the thought of him shagging her while wearing it—but barring actually being able to cling to him, she thrust her hips up as best she could in time with his downward motion, causing him to lose his pace for a moment.

She felt his mouth on her throat, teeth grazing the skin there; with the dizzying array of electric sensation, she found she had no rein on her voice, crying out (albeit incoherently) how absolutely incredible it felt to be with him, how he seemed to know exactly what to do, how quickly she was losing herself in utter ecstasy—

Until she did lose herself in utter ecstasy, suddenly and surprisingly and with a strength that sort of surprised her. With each wave that passed over her she moaned and groaned, and then she realised he was groaning too, groaning in time with her and groaning with his effort, breathing hard, tensing all over and powering forward with one last lunge that told her that he, too, had come.

When he was spent, he reared his head back as if to catch his breath and as he did, she could not resist lifting her head to place a kiss on his Adam's apple, just as he gulped down air and it bobbed. At that moment he managed a chuckle, the sort of chuckle that indicated utter release in more than one way, and he looked down to her before dropping down to his side and pulling her to him.

"I'm afraid," he said after many moments of pressing light kisses into her hair, "that _that_ did not have the high level of dignity I had hoped for."

She smiled, running her hand down over the arm of his suit jacket. "Especially since I'm sure you're going to have bruises on your legs from my shoes."

She felt him rock with silent laughter. "You were too irresistible to wait for the tedium of undress," he said; then, with surprising candour, added, "I wanted you far too much, and that dress on you… absolutely breathtaking."

Considering she felt overstuffed in the thing, she felt a blush race across her skin. She said, "I recall that I was the one who launched myself on you."

"Too true. Bridget." His voice turned to almost pleading.

She raised her head, her eyes, to meet his.

"I hope you'll stay the night," he continued, looking terribly vulnerable.

She swallowed hard. It was going to be bloody difficult not to fall for this man, and fall hard. "Have yet to have dessert," she said lightly.

He said nothing, only raised his hand to stroke her face. "I'm pretty sure what just transpired here topped what's awaiting us in the refrigerator."

She smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her again.

"I suppose," she began, "dessert might keep for breakfast."

………

He smiled; dessert most certainly would keep until breakfast, but that mattered little compared to the fact she'd tacitly agreed to stay with him, giving him a chance to give her his undivided and meticulous attention, which he had every intention of doing. 

After all, as much as he loved seeing her in the dress, he really, really wanted to see her out of it.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [Types of white wines.](http://www.frenchscout.com/types-of-white-wines) Chardonnay is, in fact, one of the best with chicken!


End file.
